In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,
Here, pal, is my calloused hand!
Billy repeated the lines half aloud. They renewed his
confidence in Bridge, somehow.
"Like them?" asked the latter.
"Yes," said Billy; "s'more of Knibbs?"
"No, Service. Come on, let's go and dine. How about the
Midland?" and he grinned at his little joke as he led the way
toward the street.
It was late afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still
was too light for lamps. Bridge led the way toward a certain
eating-place of which he knew where a man might dine
well and from a clean platter for two bits. Billy had been
keeping his eyes open for detectives. They had passed
no uniformed police--that would be the crucial test, thought
he--unless Bridge intended tipping off headquarters on the
quiet and having the pinch made at night after Billy had gone
to bed.
As they reached the little restaurant, which was in a
basement, Bridge motioned Billy down ahead of him. Just for an
instant he, himself, paused at the head of the stairs and looked
about. As he did so a man stepped from the shadow of a
doorway upon the opposite side of the street.
If Bridge saw him he apparently gave no sign, for he turned
slowly and with deliberate steps followed Billy down into the
eating-place.
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